


the world is crumbling around us, but you're holding me together

by softlikethesunset



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Ron Weasley centric, Ron cries and Hermione gives him a hug, implied perciver bc i cannot write a single hp fic without putting them in it lmfao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27804430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlikethesunset/pseuds/softlikethesunset
Summary: Ronald Weasley wakes up with a crick in his neck.or, it's the day after the Battle of Hogwarts, and Ron needs to face his grief.also jkr can begone hp is mine now sorry not sorry joanne.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	the world is crumbling around us, but you're holding me together

Ronald Weasley wakes up with a crick in his neck.

He got hardly any sleep, staring at the dusty posts of the bed he had now outgrown, and the dorm itself seemed smaller.

He had slept in jeans and a ratty shirt, settling to scrub them with a cleaning charm to get the dirt off.

Harry rested soundly on the next bed over, snoring, his slightly crushed glasses thrown onto the nightstand.

Three lumps on the rest of the beds told Ron that the rest of his old roommates were fast asleep, too.

If Ron squinted, it was almost like old times.

He could almost see the schoolbooks splayed across the wooden desk, Seamus’s scarf thrown over one of his bedposts, Trevor curled up next to Neville on his pillow.

But then he remembers the castle in ruins, bodies of students past on cots in the Great Hall, his brother’s among them.

He remembers Harry, in Hagrid’s arms, the sinking feeling when he thought his best friend was dead.

It wasn’t like old times.

Nothing would ever go back to the way it was again.

When Ron stumbles into the common room, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, he tiptoes to the couch, nearly stepping on Percy’s foot and tripping over Oliver Wood, whose limbs were tangled with the former’s, leaning against the wall.

The couch is occupied.

Hermione is crouched over a book, bags prominent under her eyes.

“‘Mione?” Ron whispers, and her head shoots up.

“Oh, hi, Ron.” She smiles tiredly, shutting the book as Ron sits next to her.

She immediately settles into his side, her head on his chest, and they sit in silence for a few minutes, Ron staring at the fire his father had set last night before everyone headed off to bed.

The flames dance, some yellow, some red, some orange, and Ron is hit with nostalgia, thinking of the Yule Ball, where everything was easier, where everyone was alive and happy.

Where Fred was alive and happy.

The silence that hangs in the air is the comfortable kind, not one of awkwardness and mumbled apologies, which is the type of silence Ron hates so much.

“I missed it here.”

Hermione’s voice is soft and full of wist as she tucks her feet close against the arm of the couch.

“Me, too. Although I wish we came back under different circumstances.” Ron sighs and strokes Hermione’s hair, which was matted and clumped from spell damage.

“I was happiest here.” Hermione decided. “This place was my home, and I loved it, but now my home is destroyed and I don’t know what to do.”

“S’okay, Hermione.” Ron interlaced his fingers with hers, squeezing her hand. “I don’t think anyone knows what to do.”

The sun is barely rising, illuminating the room, shining warmly on Ron’s face.

The musty bookshelf is glowing, motes of dust floating into the golden air, and Ron breathes in, trying to control the emotions swelling up inside him.

“How are you?” Hermione asks, tilting her head and angling her brown eyes to meet his blue ones.

Ron laughs, a short, sad laugh. “Terrible. Awful. A mess.”

She frowns and wraps her arms around him, and Ron leans into her touch. “It’s hard to think about it too much. About how many people are gone.”

“It’s hard to think about even a little bit,” Ron counters and Hermione nods. 

“I get that. But you can’t ignore your grief. You have to face it.”

“Face it? Face it how?”

“When you think about…” Her voice wavers, “Fred, what comes to mind?”

“I get this feeling that he’s going to walk down the stairs any moment and ask what’s for breakfast, but I know that can’t be true because  _ I saw him _ and he’s dead, but he’s  _ not _ because he can’ be dead, he just can’t…” 

Ron wipes his tears with the back of his hand as Hermione sits up and presses her cheek against his.

“Oh, Ron,” She whispers, and he buries his face in her shoulder, sobbing, as he struggles to contain the wave of pain. 

“I’m sorry-” He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“ _ Don’t _ be sorry. You don’t have to be sorry for being upset.” Her tone was firm, but the adoration seeped through.

“O-okay.” 

Hermione’s hair, though tangled, smelled like strawberries, Hogsmeade in the winter, ink fresh from the bottle.

It smelled like happiness. 

“You’re going to be alright.” She pulled back and put her head on his shoulder, humming.

Ron opened his mouth to thank her, but the young girl’s chest was rising and falling steadily, her breath coming in little puffs of air. 

He rubbed Hermione’s arm, and she sighed contentedly, snuggling closer to him and clinging onto his maroon sweater.

“Sleep well.” 

The sun rose above the tower, and Hermione slept until it went down again.


End file.
